Page 118 of Written By a Woman

My phone buzzed again, this time from my favorite man in the world.

Zaiddy: Guess what I just found.

He then sent a picture of the scream mask he had worn in his office last Halloween. I giggled, ignoring the curious looks from the women around me, as I typed my reply to him.

Me: Don’t lose it this time.

Zaiddy: Is this seriously a thing?

Me: Put it on tonight and see for yourself.

Zaiddy: Whatever you want, habibti.

I was confident I had officially peaked in life.

Hearing him call me endearing terms like “love of my life” or “light of my eye” or “my moon” in Arabic would never get old. Neither would reading those pet names from his text messages. Or in the cute little handwritten notes he’d leave next to me any time he went into the office before me, and I was still asleep.

Zaid Ansara wasn’t perfect, but he was pretty damn close to it.

Because he was mine.

And even though we wouldn’t be living this picture-perfect life forever, taking turns staying the night at each other’s places, going to work together, and leaving together most days, I was excited to see what came next for the two of us.

Looking back, I was glad that I had the insane idea of writing him into my first published novel because even though it was probably one of the most anxious seasons of my adult life, it landed me here.

I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

THE END